The Boogeyman
by allthingsdecent
Summary: Another story from the land of lost fics (my LJ page). Post Moving On. It's kinda depressing.


The guard led House into the holding room.

House started a bit when he saw Foreman sitting at the table. He had been told he was meeting the Dean of Medicine.

"Cuddy, you've changed," he said.

"It's good to see you, too, House," Foreman said, standing. He went to shake hands, then realized that House was in cuffs. He withdrew his hand awkwardly.

"So. . .what are you now?" House accused. "Cuddy's messenger boy? You're doing her bidding for her?"

Foreman regarded him cautiously.

"You don't know?"

"Know what? How to bake a file into a cake? No, I have NO idea." House winked broadly at the guard, who was still standing in the doorway.

"Cuddy's gone," Foreman said.

"Gone where?"

"Gone, as in, no longer with the hospital. As in, I'm the new Dean of Medicine."

House's jaw dropped. Foreman watched him process the news.

"But Cuddy loves that hospital," House said feebly. "It's like her baby."

"And now it's my baby."

House kept staring.

"But when? Why?"

"When? Right after you rammed your car into her house. Why? Do you really have to ask, House?"

"But I was in prison. . . okay, a beach in Fiji and then prison. She couldn't have been running away from me."

Foreman shrugged.

"I guess she knew you'd eventually get out."

#########

A few nights later, Wilson brought steaks over to House's place.

House regaled him with tales of prison life. He told him about insecure Jewish skinheads and his gentle giant roommate and his only friend (a nice enough guy but a truly mediocre chess player), and the beautiful young doctor in the clinic who had intrigued him.

Wilson laughed and shook his head and was frankly just glad to see his friend all in one piece.

"You made it, House," he said fondly. "I knew you would. You're a survivor."

"I am that," House said. He took a gulp of red wine. The air was thick with things unsaid.

"How is she?" he said finally.

"She who?" Wilson asked. But of course he knew.

"She's a little freaked out," he admitted.

"Why?"

"Because you're out of jail, genius."

"What? She thinks I'm going to drive another car into her house?"

"Or worse," Wilson said.

"Worse? Drive a _truck_ into her house? And where is her new house, anyway?"

Wilson shot him a look: He still didn't get it.

"I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"Because she told me not to. Because she's afraid of you."

House frowned at him.

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it?"

"Of course. She knows I'd never hurt her."

"She knows that, huh?"

"What? Because of the car thing? That was. . . just me blowing off some steam. I knew no one was in that dining room."

"You could've killed somebody."

"Don't be melodramatic."

"House, you were out of control."

"So?"

"You were out of control and you committed a violent crime."

"Crime yes. Violent is a matter of interpretation."

"My wrist—and New Jersey law—says otherwise."

"I already apologized about that. _And_ I paid my dues."

"Well, she doesn't want someone that volatile around Rachel. Or herself, for that matter. Can you blame her?"

"So that's it?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"What?" House laughed, like the very idea he was about to propose was absurd. "She's never going to speak to me again? She's never going to tell me where she lives?"

"Right," Wilson said plainly.

House looked at him.

"I already know she's running St. Michael's Medical Center," he said snippily. "That's in Westchester. So she obviously didn't get too far."

"Move on, House. She's gone."

"No she isn't."

"There's a reason why she never mentions your name. And why she didn't write to you in prison."

"Neither did you. . .and look us at now."

"Not the same thing. For starters, you didn't attack me. Not intentionally at least."

"I didn't attack her. I attacked her _dining room_. There's a difference."

"She had nightmares for months after that. She _still _has nightmares."

House contemplated a piece of steak that was poised on his fork. He hadn't taken a bite since they'd begun discussing Cuddy.

"Then let me make it right," he said. "Give me her phone number."

"Not gonna happen."

"I need to talk to her."

"No, you don't. You've tormented her enough. For once in your life, be a gentleman and leave her be."

House sighed. He put down the uneaten bite of steak as a lost cause and stared at his plate.

"So is she still seeing that guy?" he asked quietly.

"What guy?"

"The dweeb at that cozy little family dinner we stumbled across."

"House, there's no guy. There never was a guy. It was all in your fevered imagination."

"Oh. . . Then is there anyone new?"

"Jesus House!" It was the first time Wilson had raised his voice all dinner.

House ignored him.

"Well, can you at least get a message to her for me?"

"Doubtful."

"Just tell her I'm sorry okay?" House said. "Just tell her I never thought she'd leave Princeton Plainsboro and it's fucked up that she's gone and I'm still here. . .and just tell her I know how fucked up that is, okay?"

"I make no promises House."

"Just tell her."

########

When he was in prison, he thought about Cuddy a lot less than you might think. He was aware, in some vague way, that he'd screwed up for real this time. Repairing things with Cuddy was going to take some effort. But his main goal was making it out alive. He had always been good at compartmentalizing. Survival now. Damage control with Cuddy later.

But that didn't mean she hadn't crept into his dreams: Sometimes they were the obvious: sex dreams. In those dreams, he was never in prison, but in his bed or hers, or on the beach in Fiji, just the two of them, naked in the sand. Sometimes he dreamed that she came to visit him, but only to tell him that she'd married the dweeb. Once he dreamed that Rachel came to see him, on her own, she took the bus. "Does your mommy know you're here?" he had asked. "Of course not, you scallywag!" she replied. "Mama hates you."

"You ever gonna talk about her?" his only friend, the chess player, asked.

"No," House said. "Her name should never be mentioned in this hellhole."

########

Wilson met Cuddy for breakfast at a little coffee shop near St. Michael's.

"How's work?" Wilson asked.

"The staff are courteous and professional. The board genuinely appreciates my work. The hospital's in the black, so there's no need for creative budget juggling . . . I'm bored to tears!" she joked.

It had been a while since he'd seen her laugh. He smiled back at her.

"Sounds horrible," he said.

"A nightmare."

She cut her bran muffin in half and looked at him expectantly.

"So," she said.

"So . . ." he said.

"Spill it."

"I have a message from him. Do you want to hear it?"

"Doubtful." She spread some jam on her muffin and said, almost as an afterthought: "He called me, you know."

"What? How?"

"He somehow got my number. From your phone presumably. Did you ever leave him alone with it?"

Wilson flashed back to his dinner at House's place. He had gone to the bathroom. Left the phone on the table.

"I'm a moron," he said.

"No, you're just not devious enough to predict his behavior."

Wilson nodded. "So what did he say?"

"He said, and I quote, 'Don't hang up.'"

"And what did you do?"

"I hung up, of course."

"And I'm sure that was the end of it," Wilson said sarcastically.

"Actually, it was. I knew he wouldn't call again. If I issue a restraining order it would violate the terms of his parole."

"Wow . . .unlike me, you actually _can_ predict his behavior."

"It's a gift. . . or a curse. I'm never sure which one."

Wilson leaned back in his chair, took her in.

"You seem to be in a better place, though, Cuddy. Last time we talked you were pretty freaked out."

"I am in a better place," she said. "I don't know what I was afraid of. It was a vague, free-form sense of dread. Now that he's out, the reality is, I'm not afraid of him."

"Good. You shouldn't be. He'd never hurt you, Cuddy."

"Too late."

Wilson sighed.

"I mean, not intentionally. He's actually quite protective of you."

Cuddy snorted. "Yeah, right."

"He never means to be an asshole. It's just. . .he can't help himself."

"No, he can't."

Cuddy took a sip of her latte. She thought about House in prison. She had never known someone who went to jail. It happened to characters in movies. Not someone she knew and had once even loved.

"I hate myself for even caring enough to ask this question," she said. "But was it bad for him? Did he get hurt?"

"He got roughed up a few times. Once enough to land himself in the clinic—although that was by design."

"Let me guess. There was a patient in there he wanted to diagnose."

"Bingo."

They both chuckled.

"So is he at all changed? I mean, humbled in any way?"

Wilson wanted to lie to her but knew that he couldn't. "No, he's exactly the same."

They both shook their heads.

"On some fundamental level, he doesn't really understand how wrong his behavior was," Wilson said. "It's very cut and dried to him. He feels like he did the time and all should be forgiven."

"And that's why I can never be around him again," Cuddy said pointedly. "He doesn't understand the real consequences of what he did. It's not just that people could've been hurt or killed, although they obviously could have. It's that he destroyed my daughter's home, her sense of wellbeing. That's damage that can't be undone. And House—he just doesn't get it."

"No, he doesn't," Wilson said. Sometimes being House's best friend was a real test. How could he defend the indefensible?

"Are you mad at me for being friends with him again?" he asked her.

"No. Of course not." she said, smiling a bit. "You guys complete each other."

Wilson nodded, smiled sadly back at her.

"So. . .do you want to hear his message or not?" he said.

"You know what?" Cuddy said. "I really don't."

#########

"What did she say?" House asked.

They were riding up the elevator to Wilson's floor. House was tossing sunflower seeds high up in the air and catching them in his mouth. He spit the shells on the elevator floor. Wilson glared at him.

"Someone will get that," House said, catching another seed and spitting. "Back to Cuddy. . ."

"She didn't say anything."

"She had to have said _something_."

"No. She didn't. To tell the truth, she asked me not to repeat your message."

"But you told her anyway, right?"

"No House. Unlike you, I respect Cuddy's wishes."

The elevator door opened. Wilson bent over, gathered House's shells off the floor, using his hands like a mini pan and broom, and got out.

"Told you someone would get those," House yelled after him.

########

Of course, it wasn't just Cuddy's phone number he had gotten from Wilson's Blackberry. He had gotten her address, too: 6190 Chestnut Street, Scarsdale, NY.

The day after his ankle bracelet was removed—leaving behind what he called the "tell-tale tan line"—he drove to her house, knocked on the door.

There was a flurry of footsteps—the padded feet of a child in footie pajamas.

Rachel opened the door. When she saw House, her face went white. "Mama!" she screamed.

She went running back into the house.

"Rachel, who is it? I told you not to. . ."

Cuddy stopped in her tracks when she saw who was standing in her doorway.

"How did you get this address?" she demanded.

"Wilson's dumbphone," House said.

Rachel was now hiding behind her mother's leg. She looked terrified.

"I want you to go," Cuddy said. "You're upsetting her."

"Rachel, it's me . . .the bloody scallywag."

Rachel gripped her mother's leg tighter. She was shaking.

"Rachel?" House said.

"Rachel, it's okay. Go inside and get ready for bed."

Rachel bolted for her room.

House watched her run away in horror.

"Christ, she acts like I'm the boogeyman," he said.

"You are. To her."

"What did you say to her?" he asked. "Why is she so afraid of me?"

"What did I say to her? What did I _say_ to her?" Cuddy was furious now. "I said, House drove his car into your house and that's why you can't sleep in your bed anymore and it's why we have to move away from your friends and it's why mommy cries herself to sleep at night. What the fuck do you think I said to her?"

"I should go," House said, backing away. "This was a mistake. I just wanted to see you and Rachel. . . I didn't think. . . "

"You never do think House. That's the problem."

########

"What happened between you and House?" Wilson asked Cuddy over the phone.

"Why? What did he say?"

"Nothing actually. But he's been really depressed these past few days and, last I checked, the only person who could affect him like that is you."

"It's true," she admitted. "He came to see me."

"He came to see you? How did he get your. . .?" He gave a sheepish sigh. "Of course, my phone. I'm going to start listing my contacts under Code Names. . . So what happened?"

"Rachel answered the door and she was scared of him."

"Scared of him?"

"Yeah. . .She's a kid. She can't quite grasp the nuances of human frailty. You're either good or you're bad. She thinks he's bad."

"Poor House."

"_Poor House_?"

"Well, I mean, it explains why he's been so down. . . he loves that little girl."

"Yeah, well he should've thought of that before he drove a car into her house."

########

_Cuddy. . . don't hang up. You still _there_? Good. _

_Look, I wanted to call when I knew you wouldn't be home because I wanted to leave this message. And the message is. . . I'm sorry. I know I've apologized before, but the truth is, I don't think I really understood what I did—and how really fucked it up it was. . . God, Rachel isn't listening in, is she? If so, Rachel don't use bad language or you'll end up in jail like me. . . I, uh, don't think I realized how truly MESSED up it was until I saw Rachel's face. _

_I can live with a lot, you know? I can live with us not being together, even though it _su_—stinks. And I can deal with us not talking, even though I miss you. . . more than I can say, actually. You have no idea how annoying Foreman is to work for. _

_But what I can't live with is thinking that you hate me and that Rachel is scared of me. I can't. So—and I know I don't deserve this but I'm asking for it anyway—if you could just give me a sign. . . it doesn't have to be today or tomorrow or even a month from now. But if you could just find it in your heart to tell me that you don't hate me, Cuddy. And that maybe you can remind Rachel how much fun we had—remind her of that time we drew eye patches on all the fancy ladies in your magazines and how you were so mad until you couldn't help yourself and you laughed, too—so she doesn't hate me either. Can you do that for me, Cuddy?_

_And Rachel, if you're listening. . .just know that I would never hurt you. I love you, you silly girl. And besides, you don't have to worry about me or anyone else hurting you because your mommy is the strongest person I know and she will destroy anyone who even THINKS about hurting you. Seriously. _

_Okay, that's all. Thanks for listening, Cuddy, even though you probably didn't. G'night._

########

A few days later, Wilson walked into House's office.

House was sitting at his desk, his head was in his hands. There was an opened envelope and a white piece of paper on his desk in front of him.

"House? Are you okay?"

House looked up, startled. His eyes were rimmed with red.

"I'm good," he said. "Actually, I'm better than good."

He slid the piece of paper across the desk. Wilson picked it up. In crayon, in a child's handwriting, it read:

DEAR HOUSE,

WE COULD NEVER HATE YOU.

LOVE,  
MOMMY AND RACHEL.


End file.
